


you did not break me

by selenedaydreams



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Croatia NT, FIFA World Cup 2018, M/M, Post-Final
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 07:46:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15335190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selenedaydreams/pseuds/selenedaydreams
Summary: Nothing can replace a real victory. Nothing will ever replace the feeling of holding the World Cup trophy and having your name etched in history as World Cup winners.But they made history too - a different kind of history.





	you did not break me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brampersandon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/gifts).



> for caitlin,  
> who allowed me to share this incredibly special world cup with her and her national team since neither one of my balkan nations was there.
> 
> title from sia's _elastic heart_

Everything changes when Peri nods the ball perfectly for Mario to tap it past Pickford into the back of the English net. 

Dalić told them from the very beginning that they weren’t here just to make it out of groups. They weren’t here just to make it to the round of 16 or to the quarterfinals or so on and so forth. They were here to take it all. 

Which...is a nice sentiment. It’s what they would all like to actually believe and maybe on the surface level, some of them do. Despite the disappointing, early exit from the Euros, it did provide them with some momentum to carry over onto this. The decisive playoff victory to qualify helped too.

Deep down, however, none of them really believe it. Years - _decades_ \- of heartbreak and injustice and bullshit journalism meant only to tear them down have conditioned them to be thankful for every single win and every single step forward. 

But in that one moment, everything shifts. 

It’s palpable. Luka sees it on all of their faces as they pile up on the ground in celebration, a mess og affectionate limbs and almost hysterical satisfaction. 

They don’t want to just reach the final. They don’t want to just be happy that they made it that far.

They _deserve_ to want and to believe that they have just as much of a chance as France to win it all. 

 

 

 

The first goal stings of embarrassment and shame.. 

The second should have never happened. 

The third and fourth blur into each other and bring with them that far too familiar sinking feeling.

The Balkan breakdown. 

Still. Mario’s cruel revenge gives them a sliver of hope. Two goals in twenty minutes aren’t unmanageable, they did it against Argentina just two weeks prior. 

They have fought so hard, come from behind time and time again to reach this moment. They have left themselves all over Russia on every single pitch they have played on. Maybe if they drag France into extra time they still have a chance. 

Maybe…

Maybe this is just how it’s always supposed to end for them. 

 

 

 

It’s human nature to want to place blame and this match makes it way too easy. 

Burnout is real and they all know it, they all _felt_ it. They played an entire extra fucking match to get to the final and none of it was done without injury or illness or feeling like they were going to collapse and pass out if they ran a minute longer.

“It should’ve been 2-2 at the end of regulation time,” Charlie spits out, almost ripping off his jersey as the rest of them continue to filter into the locker room. 

“I know,” Luka agrees, sitting down next to Andrej to untie his boots. Of course, he knows. All of them know. 

The freekick shouldn’t have been given. Neither should have the penalty. The penalty _wasn’t_ given but the French players circled Pitana and forced his hand to review it anyway. How he managed to confuse a blatant dive for a legitimate penalty even after watching several replays of the video...well. 

Dejan laughs, hollow and bitter and loud enough for the sound to reverberate off the walls. Several of them lift their heads to look over at him. “We really thought FIFA was going to let some Balkans win the World Cup.”

 

 

 

For what it’s worth, Dalić tells them that there is no reason for them not to hold their heads up high and proud. He doesn’t mention that despite how the final went, they still made history. Instead, he reminds them of how incredibly hard they fought until the very last moment. That last consolation goal mattered more than they could probably conceive at the moment. They made millions of Croatians around the world proud and that’s what they should focus on.

It’s not like they don’t want to. They would all love to cling to the silver medals around their necks and remember that the ‘98 golden generation only managed bronze. As if that’s not the crux of it all.

When did the bronze medal they all worshiped as kids become _just_ a bronze medal? 

And if that bronze is just a bronze, why does their silver still feel like not enough? Why does it also feel like just silver?

 

 

 

The flight from Moscow to Zagreb is short enough to allow them the luxury of being able to return to their hotel and lick their wounds in peace before leaving in the morning.

They pair off as one would expect. Charlie, Šime, Mateo, and Milan find several bottles of vodka and champagne and setting up shop in the dining room of the hotel. On his way up to his room, Luka catches a glimpse of Peri and Broz heading into their’s, arms around each other’s waists and clearly already on the drunk side of tipsy. Presumably, Mario and Danijel and the rest of them are either already fast asleep or drinking the night away.

Inside his room, Luka is greeted by the muffled sound of the shower running. Ivan’s clothes are scattered all over the floor, their suitcases lying open in a similar state of disarray. Only his metal sits neatly folded on the nightstand. 

He should at least pack. For himself. For both of them. Or, more accurately, stuff all of their belongings into their suitcases safe for what they are going to wear tomorrow and leave that mess for their future selves to deal with. 

He should, but it’s so much easier to shed his own clothes and leave them on the floor in a similar manner. His medal, however, he places on the nightstand next to Ivan’s. 

He opens the bathroom door loud enough for Ivan to hear him come in and protest the company if it’s unwanted. Instead, Luka watches Ivan rinse off his hair and look over at him through the clear glass walls of the shower cabin. A soft, tired smile tugs at his lips and that is all the invitation Luka needs to slide the door open and step inside. 

Ivan reaches out for him almost immediately, his hands coming to rest low on his waist as he tugs him closer under the warm spray of water. “Charlie slipped me a bottle of rakija. I think he was saving it for himself but he said that he wants us to have it.”

Despite everything, hearing that makes Luka’s heart feel too big to fit inside his own chest. The meaning of that gesture doesn’t escape him. It calls forth a million flashes of memory and brings into sharp focus something that Dalić should have probably mentioned in his speech earlier. 

Then again, maybe he thought it would be redundant to mention. 

They did fight hard. They did fight until the very last second. All of that and more is a truth that nobody can deny, even the pundits that will fashion a compelling narrative for France in the morning and dismiss them as just another fairytale. They were only able to achieve all of that because they did it together. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t already start drinking it,” A lie. It tracks that Ivan would wait for him but a little light teasing would do both of them some good. This entire hotel is already carrying too much tension as is.

And, of course, Ivan sees right through him. “You don’t mean that.” 

“I don’t,” Luka reaches up to wrap his arms around his neck, fingers twisting in the wet hair at the nape of his neck while he steps closer, leaving no space between them. It’s easy then to tip his head back and kiss him, slow and lazy and like for once in what feels like ages, they have all the time in the world to indulge themselves. 

His legs ache, every single muscle in his body aches and has been aching since quarterfinals, he’s just refused to acknowledge it. Maybe that was a mistake. He hates the thought that he could have led them to believe that it was okay to ignore the limitations of their own bodies and destroy themselves for this. 

It all comes back to him in flashes. Danijel going into a penalty shootout when there was clearly something wrong with his hamstring… _Ivan_ playing with a fever…the fact that he himself couldn’t even fucking run during the dying moments of the match against England...

“Hey,” Ivan’s fingers twist in his hair and tug just hard enough for him to get his attention, “Stop thinking about it.”

And wouldn’t that be nice. “I can’t,” Two words that haven’t left his mouth the entire time they have been here. Even if he thought he couldn’t, he did. But now, here...it feels okay to say them again. There is a raging storm of thoughts inside his head, a constant battle between relishing in this historic result and clinging to the harsh disappointed that it wasn’t historic enough. 

“Let me help you then.”

Ivan sinks to his knees in one fluid motion and Luka’s hands come to rest on his head with practiced ease. He wasn’t going to ask but he definitely isn’t going to refuse. It’s two-fold, he reminds himself when Ivan’s fingers curl around him. It’s good for both of them. 

 

 

 

Luka is so damn thankful they pushed the beds together before leaving earlier. They kill off half the plastic bottle of rakija while drying off and trying to pick out something to wear for tomorrow that they haven’t already worn several times. In retrospect, maybe they should have packed more than two weeks’ worth of clothing. 

When they eventually lay down, Luka is more than certain that he could sleep for the next twenty-four hours and still feel exhausted. He reminds himself that the celebrations will be worth having to drag themselves out of bed at whatever ungodly hour their wakeup call will be at. 

It takes no time for Luka to shut his eyes but as soon as he does, Ivan is shifting beside him and sitting up again. It’s only when Luka feels something being slipped over his head that he opens his eyes again. 

His medal. He feels the cold metal against his chest. 

Before he can ask, Ivan is already plastering himself over him, kissing him hard into the mattress with as much strength as he has left. Luka feels him grin against his mouth as soon as the medals clink softly together between them.

Ah.

“I’ve always wanted to do that.”

Ivan is still smiling when they kiss again. His satisfaction is infectious. Luka finds himself reciprocating without meaning to as he pulls him closer and wraps his arms and legs around him. 

Maybe for tonight, it’s okay to enjoy this. 

 

 

 

As they board the bus the next day, Dejan shows him on his phone how many more people are watching their live stream than France’s. Nikolina, their bus driver, tells them that over half a million people are expected to fill the streets of Zagreb today. 

Half a million. There are only four million people that live in Croatia. 

Nothing can replace a real victory. Nothing will ever replace the feeling of holding the World Cup trophy and having your name etched in history as World Cup winners.

But they made history too - a different kind of history. 

They achieved something that is a thousand times more meaningful than France’s victory could ever be. 

Looking down from the roof of the bus, Luka can’t even see the pavement. He can’t speak because his words are drowned out by the deafening cheering of the crowd. 

It occurs to him then that maybe it was a privilege to be sad. The crushing disappointment they felt last night was a rare gift. 

For those precious few days between the semifinal and final they never thought of just settling for being in the final, they actually thought that they could do it.

**Author's Note:**

> \- look, the True Balkan Feeling is being tug-of-wared between feeling so fucking grateful that you made it to the final but wanting to scrub off all of that self-pitying believe that you deserved more  
> \- please refer yourself to [señor iker casillas' twitter](https://twitter.com/IkerCasillas/status/1018520188327727106) if you think that either the freekick and the penalty should have happened  
> \- the "balkan breakdown," my own term, i think, is the constant story of every balkan nation on the brink of doing something amazing - coming so _so_ close and dying at the last moment  
>  \- ha. haha. if you add up all the extra time croatia played you will see that they essentially played a whole entire each match to reach the final which you would be lying if you said didn't affect their performance in the final  
> \- [this](http://asensihoe.tumblr.com/post/175930544841/za-mog-brata-luku-od-srca-najve%C4%87a-mi-je-%C4%8Dast) really just speaks for itself  
> \- i'm just going to leave [this](https://lovrenfc.tumblr.com/post/175961789164/samo-mi-ovo-mozemo) here  
> \- thank you so much for reading, find me on [tumblr](http://ikercasiillas.tumblr.com/) where there's constant balkan yelling


End file.
